


Clipped

by rainbowtaurus



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: A little spooky, Adventure, Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Attempted Rape, Bigotry & Prejudice, Class Differences, Consent Issues, Dark Fairy Tale Elements, Dark with a happy ending, Disturbing Themes, Dominant Kylo Ren, Drama & Romance, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fairy Tale Elements, HEA, Indentured Servitude, Kylo POV, Kylo Ren is not a rapist, Kylo will slaughter anyone who hurts Rey, Loss of Virginity, Mating Ritual, No Pregnant Rey, Power Imbalance, Protective Kylo Ren, Rey POV, Rey has a mom and she's alive, Rey is not submissive, Reylo Faeries, Romance, Romantic Soulmates, Sex Magic, Sexism, Sexual Slavery, Size Difference, Slow Burn, Violence, discussion of pregnancy as a result of rape, fairy tale tropes and cliches abound, light humor, star wars lore mixed in with fantasy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-31
Updated: 2020-09-18
Packaged: 2021-03-03 11:13:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24470035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rainbowtaurus/pseuds/rainbowtaurus
Summary: Fantasy/Fairy Reylo because have you seen the amazing Kylo with wings art out there? And Rey? It's *chefs kiss*Summary: Rey belongs to a type of fae known as the Niima. For centuries the Niima were considered beautiful, powerful, and fast. Jealousy is an ugly thing. Now, all Niima have their wings clipped at birth, making it impossible for them to fly. They are forced into servitude, equally desired and looked down upon by the upper class.Kylo is a powerful fae and decides he has to have Rey.
Relationships: Kylo Ren/Rey
Comments: 175
Kudos: 385





	1. Grounded

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Me: I'm in the mood to write a fantasy fic.  
> Also me: You have other fics to update.  
> Me: *writes fantasy AU anyways*
> 
> Thanks for reading my indulgence :)

Rey’s useless wings catch the wind. 

They billow out behind her - and for a sliver of a second it feels possible - it feels like she can push off from the wet, mossy ground and fly _._ On impulse, she dances through the trees and sprints towards the embankment. It beckons to her, it draws out her natural instinct. The instinct to fly.

The last few rays of the setting sun illuminate the soft golden hue of her wings. As Rey gathers speed she remembers the stories about her people. The stories her mother whispered to her in the dead of night. She prays for them to give her strength.

_“The Niima were the fastest of the fae. The swiftest. We were strong. Not even a Wren could catch us. We delivered life saving medicines to the healers, and brought war-stopping treaties to neighboring lands.”_

Heart pumping, Rey leaps into the air. 

_“The Niima could summon powerful magic. They were wielders of the force of life. Able to dip into the web that connects us all, sensitive enough to feel it in every being. Our great mother, Csenia, was said to use it to bring the dead to life. Fae, elves, even the water creatures would seek her out.”_

Magic. Rey could use a little of that magic right about now, as her eyes flicker towards the ground below. 

_“The Kaarians and Tuanne were so jealous, so filled with envy that they hunted Csenia down and clipped her wings. Rendered them useless. It broke her spirit, and the secrets of magic were lost to the Niima. Csenia’s beauty is the only thing that saved her. They dragged her back to the palace to become the King’s consort.”_

Rey is suspended in midair, tethered to a desperate dream as she frantically flutters her wings.

_“Is Csenia still alive mama?”_

_Rey’s mother smoothes back her daughter's hair and smiles sadly. She sighs._

_“No, child. That was long ago.”_

_“Is that why our wings don’t work - why the Niima are broken?”_

_“We aren’t broken, Rey. Every Niima has her wings clipped at birth for her own protection. Csenia is a cautionary tale. It does not bode well to try and cheat death, to master the power of life. It leads to unnatural things. We’ve been paying for it ever since.”_

_“But I want to fly!”_

Rey closes her eyes and imagines she is soaring. She is weightless, the wind brushing through her hair, wings beating hard and fast. She is powerful like her ancestors before her. She is Csenia reincarnated, on her way to liberate the Niima from exploitation.

She is -

Falling.

“No, no, no,” Rey panics as she hurls towards the ground, spiraling out of control. She tucks her wings in as tight as she can, trying to protect them from further injury, and hits the forest floor with a hard thud.

A stitch of pain tears through her side like a bolt of lightning. The pain ebbs and she sits up with a groan, gasping for breath.

“Foolish fae,” she winces, “you’ve done it now.”

Rey carefully wiggles her fingers and rotates her wrists. Nothing broken, that’s good. The most important feast of the season is tonight; she will be carrying endless trays of food, mead, and elixirs to the guests of honor.

To very drunk, loud, and lecherous guests of honor. In the past men with less than honorable intentions have chased her through the great halls and kitchens. No one tries to stop it. Why should they? She’s just a Niima.

To her relief, they have always been too sloshed to avoid the cast-iron skillet she bashes them over the head with.

It’s her favorite weapon.

Niima are disproportionately smaller in stature compared to most fae. Easy to toss over a shoulder and even easier to pin down. What was once an asset in helping them fly swiftly is now a weakness.

Rey runs her hands over her nose, her cheekbones, and lips. She cringes. Her bottom lip is split open and bleeding. That won’t do. Mother is going to be angry.

Rey doesn’t think her beauty is exceptional, but there _are_ certain expectations to be met.

Niima do not exist merely to serve the upper class food and drink, to tend to their children and tidy their estates. Niima are sought after as adornments for parties, as _entertainment_ for those who wish to indulge themselves with a fae who, legally, can never turn them down. It is why, when she runs screaming through the servants halls, no one ever comes to her aid.

Rey’s stomach lurches. The pressure to appear _tempting_ for creatures that view her as nothing more than dirt on the bottom of their shoe is vile. It awakens her righteous fury, her rage. If she could get her hands on a sword, on a crossbow - she’d avenge every Niima since Csenia was assaulted.

Rey clambers to her feet, her breath coming out in hot puffs in contrast to the cool night air. How ironic, she thinks, that Niima are simultaneously considered inferior scum _yet_ deeply desired to keep beds warm. Rey and her mother were purchased for an exorbitant price, but the punishment for killing a Niima is practically non-existent. 

It's sick.

At least they are together. At least they are confined to the kitchens, to cooking and serving at luxurious feasts and parties. They are merely eye candy, and her mother’s talent for sewing keeps them safe and surrounded by women during the day. For now.

Rey wraps her wings around her body for comfort, and limps in the direction of the palace.

  
  


___

“By the _light_ , look at the state of you,” her mother cries, huddled against the ancient palace wall. 

It is not the most impressive palace, it is no fortress. The same fae clan has occupied it for thousands of years, passing it down from generation to generation. They command the respect of the valley with their ruthless tenacity, money, and political savvy. 

Meanwhile, Rey’s mother is in a state of mounting distress. 

“And tonight of all nights - when the Wren are coming. Tell me you weren’t visiting the grove. I told you to stop going there, Rey!”

“The Wren?” Rey repeats, ignoring her mother’s question, “What business do they have _here?_ ”

“Hush and get inside,” her mother ties an apron around her waist, fussing and fretting over Rey’s tangled hair, the dirt on her dress. She steers Rey through the narrow slit of a door and slams it shut.

Thankfully, she doesn’t mention the cut lip.

Maybe she thinks her daughter is beyond help when it comes to self grooming.

It is chilly inside, and Rey wishes the servant entryways were not so bare, dusty, and filled with cobwebs. She furrows her brow in concentration as she follows her chattering mother down a steep staircase.

The Wren are the dark fae from the east - the fae whose kingdoms lie deep beneath the earth. They aren’t devils, nor are they demons. They are powerful beyond comprehension, conquering and collecting kingdoms on a whim. She has heard terrible things about their leader, who goes by one name: Kylo.

The bards weave tales and sing songs about his legendary temper, his insatiable lust for violence. Rey tries to brush off her nerves with a smirk and an eye roll as her mother digs into her pocket, shoving a small bottle into Rey’s hand. She points a wobbly finger at her daughter’s face.

“Drink it. All of it. It cost me more than we can afford.”

“What -”

“ _Drink it_ ,” her mother chokes back tears, “One of the Wren might take an interest in you. You can’t...” her mother’s face contorts into an expression of grief, “...you can’t refuse them this time, Rey. No skillets. Keep your head down, and hopefully they will go for the more experienced girls.”

Experienced girls. Niima who try to gain freedom through sex, through alliances and marriage to wealthy fae. It is rare, but it does happen.

It is not something Rey judges them for - maybe if she were braver, she would do the same. Her mother is right to worry. Rey is too fresh-faced, too ripe for the picking. Wren are predators, they will sense her innocence. She is of standard age for any man, woman, or being to bed her according to fae law - she can’t call upon the flimsy defense of being underage for protection.

She snorts. Protections do not exist for Niima. 

Rey has never seen a Wren in person before, but she has heard descriptions of them. The thought of being bedded by one of those foul, leather winged beasts sets her heart racing. She's never been kissed, let alone touched like _that._ A shudder starts at the base of her spine and works its way up until her entire body is quaking.

She tilts her head back and swallows the potion in one gulp. Her stomach cramps in response, but at least no conception will take place if she is unlucky enough to be chosen as entertainment. As an exotic plaything. 

Rey smacks her lips together at the unpleasant aftertaste. She hopes her mother wasn’t swindled, she hopes the potion works. There are too many charlatans in the marketplace preying on desperate customers.

When her mother turns away, Rey makes a mess of her hair and scowls. She plans on presenting herself as unattractive, and unappealing as possible. No man, Wren, or creature will want to put his hands on her.

Skillet or not - she _will_ fight back if one of them tries to have his way. 

Rey might not be able to fly, but she still has her damn dignity.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!  
> I hope this provided a brief distraction from any stresses in your life.  
> Xoxo


	2. Feast

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! I hope this long chapter somewhat makes up for the month wait between updates. Eeek you know how life gets sometimes. A few things:
> 
> As indicated in the tags, this fic deals with rape, violence, and consent issues along with a plethora of other disturbing themes. I write from the POV of my own experience and I know it is not reflective of everyone’s experience. I will do my best to warn you about triggers in chapters. In this chapter there is non-consensual touching between Kylo and Rey (not rape). All future [sexual] interactions will be consensual between them. It’s a slow burn so it’s gonna be a while…
> 
> There also an assault/attempted rape towards the end of the chapter. If you want to skip/skim it starts with the words “Hello? Mom, is that you?” And ends with “Her focus is singular as she bolts for the door, yanks it open, and crashes into Hux.”  
> There are no more assaults/rape after this chapter. 
> 
> On a lighter note, I am incorporating lore from fairytales and superstitions my grandma would tell me when I was younger. These come from Poland, Ireland, and Wales - I wish I knew the specific localities. 
> 
> Last but def not least I want to thank my amazing beta reader jacrispybensolo. Without her this would not exist. WitchyScribbles on twitter created a beautiful Kylo fae for this fic that I will figure out how to post here - she's incredible. And thank you Vivsketchess for sharing this on your Instagram your art is beautiful. 💜💜
> 
> Sorry for the mini novel. Thanks for reading.
> 
> TLDR: This chapter is really long.
> 
> _____

Rey is one step behind her mother as they enter the main kitchen. Despite the vaulted ceiling, it is sweltering hot inside. Rey wipes at the perspiration on her forehead. It feels like the height of summer, humid and miserable, instead of the chilly beginnings of spring in the forest. 

The stone ovens are alight and a well-tended blaze burns in the largest hearth roasting not one, but two boars. Rey cranes her neck for a glimpse of the long elm table in the center of the room. Delicacies that she hasn’t seen in _ages_ are artfully arranged on platters and trays: specialty meats, savory pies, fish, fruits, vegetables, cakes, huge piles of bread with butter, cheese, nuts and dried berries. Bottles of wine and entire barrels of mead have been carried up from the cellars - not to mention the liquors in bottles of every shape and size. 

The anxious energy in the room is contagious and Rey catches a flash of Armitage Hux at the back of the room, barking orders at some poor ward to hurry up and unload jars of honey and crates of strawberries.

There were no wild strawberries during her dalliance in the forest, let alone the fist size ones being taken out of baskets and placed in round bowls. Her mistress must have placed an order for out of season foods _months_ in advance.

It is not what she would expect to serve to creatures who live beneath the earth. Beasts that they are, wouldn’t piles of worms and maggots tempt the Wrens’ palates more than fresh fare? 

Rey coughs through a cloud of smoke - something is burning - and maneuvers through the crowd behind her mother. Pots and pans clatter, flames roar, skillets sizzle. The energy reaches a fervent level, and Rey can’t help but wonder what the occasion is for the Wren’s visit. 

It is not a good night for a celebration. There is no moon in the sky - not even the beginnings of a new one.

A bad omen. 

Pixies buzz around her, wings nothing more than a blur as they sprinkle spices into cauldrons bubbling with soups and sauces. The aroma of food makes her mouth water, and Rey realizes how much time passed since her last meal. She won’t be talked into snacking on nuts and berries before the feast, she needs something substantial in her belly. She continues trailing her mother and smells the pork before she sees it. One of the elves is shaving it onto a platter and Rey can’t help herself. As they pass the counter, she discreetly grabs a fistful.

She tenses and wordlessly curses. The meat is _hot_ , but Rey does not care; she shovels the food inside her mouth. Her taste buds explode at the sweet savory flavor of the juicy meat.

With a contented sigh, she continues eating without thought. She licks each finger clean and deftly snags a freshly baked roll from another table, tearing into it with vigor. She wipes her hands on her apron, pleased with her sloppy appearance. Maybe she’ll leave the bits of meat in her teeth too. See how much of an interest the Wren take in her then.

Her eyes scan the room for a drink and land on a group of servants dumping sliced apples, pears, oranges, and blueberries into pitchers of white wine. She’d gladly prep a hundred oranges for the sweet beverage. Rey devises a plan to join in when her mother stops short. 

With a yelp, Rey bumps against her back, smearing her mother’s dress with sauce from her hurried meal. 

That’s not the worst of it. 

Bearing down on Rey and her mother is Armitage Hux with his trademark perpetual sneer. One of the official palace stewards and unofficial wrangler of wayward Niima. He examines Rey with a critical eye.

“Tangled hair knotted with leaves. Covered in dirt and,” he sniffs, “is that pork? So _uncouth_ , Rey. One would find it hard to believe you’re a maiden. Tell me Maeve, why do you allow your daughter to traipse about like a hellion?”

Rey aggressively finger combs her hair, twinging with guilt that her mother is being reprimanded for her errors. As if on cue, her mother whips around and lets out a short, exasperated sigh.

“Rey -”

“Is a petulant brat, as expected.” Hux finishes dryly, his mouth curling upwards in distaste. 

“Sorry.” Rey reaches for a cloth to clean her mother’s soiled dress. She glares at Hux as she speaks. “I should have planned ahead better, I didn’t know the Wren were cause for such an elaborate -”

“ _Enough_.” Hux yanks the cloth from her hand and tosses it aside. “Go to the dressing room. Put on your uniform for the feast. Try not to muck it up. Visualize yourself acting like a proper Niima, and then emulate that vision tenfold. Can you manage that for at _least_ one night, Rey?”

Rey seizes an uncorked bottle of ale from the nearest countertop. She shoves it against his chest.

“I can. And you need to relax. Can you manage that, _Armitage_?”

She steps around a red-faced Hux and stomps towards the dressing room. Not very graceful, not very Niima-like. She allows herself to take a few even breaths to cool her temper.

Armitage Hux is a proud man. Tall, with elegant features and a stern disposition. While Hux enjoys the power that comes with the household rank of steward, it is an illusion. He has been dealt the unfortunate hand of being half-Niima in a society that values full-blooded Niima. A partial Niima can be purchased at a bargain rate, and many of them are snatched up and used for dangerous labor. It is no secret that Hux was sold by his father. His actual flesh and blood human father, Brendol Hux. 

Brendol Hux helms the biggest mercenary army in the province: The First Order. An organization infamous for their inhumane but effective methods. It is well known that Brendol hunts runaway Niima and other wanted beings for sport. For fun. To train his soldiers. Rey can guess exactly what the circumstances were surrounding Armitage’s conception, and it ignites a white-hot rage inside of her. 

She tries not to pity Armitage. He would hate that. He may be rigid and thrives on routine and discipline, but he has never been cruel. He might even be likable if he weren’t so guarded, so untrusting. Rey does her best to remember that his Draconian worldview is rooted in deep pain and loss. 

Untying her stained apron, Rey ducks out of the main kitchen and into a wide corridor. She navigates the flurry of activity as smartly dressed servers carrying appetizers pass by, squeezing against the wall to let them through.

Next she gets a preview of her uniform as Niima glide past her holding trays running over with barley meal, silverweed root, and stalks of heather for garnish. Traditional, customary faerie food that she has never cared much for. 

As for the uniform, it is a flowing silk dress that just barely falls on the side of classy. The pearl-white material shimmers when light hits it, and thigh-high slits on either side are meant to entice. Backless with a plunging neckline, the fabric clings to the body in all the right places. Resting on top of each Niima’s head is a crown of white flowers strung together. The occasional male Niima is dressed in trousers and a tunic made from the same silken material. It looks immensely more comfortable, but Rey cannot deny the ethereal effect of both outfits.

But then she remembers the outfit is meant to seduce. It is meant to portray Niima as innocent but _willing,_ and free for the taking.

Would Hux have her wings if she not-so-accidentally spilled cherry juice all over the dress? If perhaps she dribbled red wine down the front of it? 

He might. And her mother would be deeply disappointed.

_Don’t prove Hux right. No petulant outbursts. Just keep your head down._

Banishing any thoughts of sabotage, Rey hurries down the corridor, shouldering her way through the crowd when she hears voices float out of an open door. Her interest is piqued when she recognizes the owner of the voice as Tallie, head gardener faerie, discussing the Wren. 

Rey leans against the doorframe and eavesdrops, curious for more information. 

“I heard they have forked tongues.”

“Well I heard they have horns _and_ fangs. Long, horrid fangs that reach the bottom of their chins.”

“And tails! With scales, like a snake. Can you imagine it? One of those things coiling around you? _Gods_ , I’m glad I’m not serving tonight.”

“Aren’t they descended from Skywalkers?”

“No - just the leader, Kylo.”

“That’s impossible.”

“It’s not. _Skywalker_ was one person.”

“That’s a myth. Everyone knows Skywalkers, whatever they were, are extinct now.” 

Rey’s never heard of a Skywalker - be it one fae or a lineage of faeries.

She is having trouble making the distinction between the voices, but then Tallie’s pretentious tone returns to the conversation. 

“Calm down girls. No need to worry. That’s what the Niima are for. Why do you think Lady Rathburn collects so many of them? Why do you think _we_ host more leaders than any other estate or palace in the province?” 

Rey can hear the scorn in Tallie’s voice as she speaks. One could almost mistake it for jealousy. But to be jealous of the Niima is unfathomable. Tallie and the others are not fae of the Niima variety - they have a level of freedom Rey can only dream about. 

Rey sneaks a glance from the doorway as Tallie braids a string of flowers into a crown.

“Lady Rathburn makes sure they have all their needs met. Give our guests plenty of wine, throw a pretty _vikkula_ in their bed and surprise - the treaties our rulers have drawn up look much more appealing in the morning.”

Rey bites the inside of her cheek to keep quiet. She’d like to give Tallie a piece of her mind for such a callous remark about her people. Maybe more than a piece. Her knuckles go white as she grips the door and forces herself to listen.

 _Vikkula_. A derogatory term used to describe humans who are not merely enamored with fae, but obsessed. Consumed. Humans who masquerade as fae by dressing in expensive fake wings and fabricating entire identities about their new persona. Some go as far as to don real wings acquired through the midnight market. 

It is a violent business, the stealing and selling of wings. Lycan furs, pixie dust, siren skins, and mer-tails are just as sought after. Rey shudders.

To call her a vikkula further mocks her identity as an already ostracized faerie. It implies she doesn’t really exist at all in the fae world, that she has no place there. Rey views it as a tactic to wipe out whatever is left of the Niima’s culture, and she has yet to understand the source of Tallie’s animosity.

It is little comfort that no one butchers Niima for their defective wings. No one in their right mind would want to be mistaken for an indentured servant - and that is the formal, _polite_ title. A title that makes the buying and selling of fae more palatable to those partaking in the process. 

Rey stares at the bracelet around her wrist. One name is seared into the precious metal: Rathburn. The name of the family that purchased Rey and her mother. If she had a surname it wouldn’t matter - Rathburn is the only one that carries any weight. 

Unless she produces a fortune in exchange for her freedom she will die working here. And Rey is not naive - she knows the system is fixed. The price for autonomy rises each year. Loopholes and clauses present insurmountable challenges for Niima who do manage to raise enough funds. 

Everyone just accepts that Niima are by default indebted to society. Indefinitely. It’s easier that way.

Tallie’s descriptions of the Wren grow more horrifying by the second, and Rey tries to downplay her fear. This feast is business as usual, nothing more. There is not much time to indulge in fear because she is filthy and needs to appear presentable. If anything, presentable for her mother’s sake. 

She shakes off Tallie’s spiteful comments and hurries to the dressing room. 

The dressing room isn’t as cramped as it usually is, with the majority of Niima having just marched by her. Rey dodges a few irate glances from the older Niima in charge of assisting the younger ones prepare for the evening. Though, they really aren’t _that_ much older than Rey. There is one Niima in particular that Rey hopes is still in the room, and luckily, she spots her oldest and dearest friend. Rose is hard to miss with a large orange cat in her arms. Rey smiles.

“Does Hux know you have Millicent?” 

“Who says Millicent belongs to Hux? She’s the palace cat.” Rose burrows her nose in the tabby’s fur. “The _best_ palace cat in the world, aren’t you?”

Rey’s grin reaches the corners of her eyes as she strips off her clothes. She dunks a rag into a sink full of water to rid her skin of the dirt and grime from the forest.

“She certainly is. You look lovely, Rose.”

Lovely is an understatement. Rose is radiant in her dress, hair shining and a flower-crown resting atop her head. Orange cat hair sheds all over the dress, and Rey attempts to whisk it off.

“Thanks. You know, we’re only serving drinks tonight - no mains or desserts.” Rose motions towards the counter where decanters filled with wine rest on top of silver trays. “You better hurry, Tania was asking for you. Were you in the grove again?”

Rey scrunches her nose.

“I - yes, I was.”

“Tell me next time! I want to come too.”

“I will. I’m sorry, I went on a whim and -”

“Let’s get going ladies.” An older woman hollers as she strides across the room. 

Tania.

Rey mouths _yikes_ to Rose and steps out of her leggings. She lifts her shirt over her head and sits on a rickety stool, leaning her head back over a copper metal tub filled with water. _Cold_ water. She shivers as Tania pours it over her head. 

“It would have been warmer if you were on time.” Tania lathers her head with soap, rinses, and dries Rey’s hair with a towel. She’s right, and Rey doesn’t argue. “See how a thorough wash brings out the natural curl in your hair?” She twists two bunches of hair into braids and pins them in place. The rest of Rey’s hair cascades down her back in waves. Tania looks pleased.

“ _This_ comes off.” Tania points to the bands binding Rey’s breasts. “The dress is backless. And be sure to get a crown from Tallie in the garden room.”

“Great.” Rey grumbles. It is no mistake that the dress is backless, that she will be showing more than she’d choose to if she had her way. “Thank you Tania.” She adds, not wanting to appear ungrateful. It is not the older Niima’s fault that the dress is designed to tempt. 

“You can thank me by being on time.” Tania says tersely, turning on her heel. 

Rey turns to Rose and begins pulling on her dress. The creamy silk material _does_ feel divine against her skin.

“Do you know why the Wren are here?” 

Millicent purrs as Rose strokes her.

“Mmm. No idea. Last I heard the Wren were having trouble with the Shadow Warriors from Rhand. Maybe they’ve come to ask for support - soldiers and weapons, that sort of thing.”

“Makes sense.” Rey responds. “I hope they aren’t working with the First Order. They always make a mess of the main hall. Last time one of them shot arrows into the ceiling.”

Rose sets down Millicent and joins Rey as they head towards the doorway.

“I _did_ see carriages with the First Order insignia arriving earlier.”

Rey groans.

“I know. They’re the worst. But I managed to swipe some cards from Hux’s office if you want to play after the feast.”

“Yes! Brilliant.That sounds perfect.” Rey isn’t aware that she is bouncing up and down from excitement. For a few precious moments she forgets about Tallie’s snark, the dress, and the First Order. She even forgets the Wren. Playing cards, laughing, and eating treats had become a regular pastime for the two of them. They’d stow away in some unused closet, staying up long after the curfew Lady Rathburn implemented on the household. Looking forward to that special time with Rose was going to carry her through the feast. 

As they chat side-by-side with their trays, Rey forgets to ask Rose why she was in Hux’s office in the first place.

*

Fully dressed with a garland of flowers adorning her head, Rey joins the neat rows of Niima on the threshold to the main hall. She is hit by a heady mixture of myrrh, wood burning, and sweat from the cavernous room. Formal introductions must have already been made, because the feast is in full swing. Rey steels herself for a night of flirting and keeping goblets full of wine. 

Candle-lit chandeliers highlight the intricate wood-carved cathedral ceiling and tiny bundles of lights sparkle throughout the hall. Rey can’t tell if they are the smallest of Pixies fluttering in place or if it is a simple bit of magic. 

Fabrics depicting moments of valor and triumph hang from the walls and the stone floor is covered with colorful rugs. Narrow tables line the perimeter of the room, decorated with copious amounts of food and drink. Singers, jugglers, and musicians lend their talents to various corners of the room - Rey has always been partial to the harpist being drowned out by the chaos.

Organized chaos, anyways.

If the reason for the Wren’s visit is as serious as Rose suggested, this is a celebratory way to kick things off. Sure enough, there is a table packed with First Order soldiers downing cankers of ale. She makes a mental note to avoid them.

As for the guests, they are not only fae, elves, and humans. Beings covered in fur and scales are seated as well, and languages she has never heard echo off the walls. Finally, Rey moves her gaze to the dais. 

A black banner emblazoned with a single red sword hangs above the throne in place of the Rathburn crest. The Rathburn family is seated to the right, and Rey spots her mistress laughing gaily with a guest. The Wren stand on the raised platform, and Rey dissects their appearance to see if the rumors are true. 

No tails that she can see - nor scales or horns. They are greeting guests one at a time, and she doesn’t spot any fangs.

“Why are so many of them up there?” She whispers to Rose.

“They are Lord Kylo’s harvesters. His private guards. Honestly Rey, you missed the entire briefing in the dressing room.”

Harvesters. Four female and two male, from what she can gather. They certainly aren’t modest when it comes to armor or attire. She and Rose are of one mind, because Rose leans in and mutters under her breath.

“Hardly any clothes. I hear they run warm.”

“They’re huge,” Rey whispers back. Sans horns and fangs, they still look devilish. 

Rey isn’t sure which is more startling - the sheer height or size of the Wren. Everything about them is big. She supposes they _have_ to be in order to carry their impressive wings. Magnificent, really.

Rey can always appreciate the beauty in wings. 

And these wings tower above the Wren’s heads, statuesque and sheathed in a jet-black membrane. Sharp talons jut out at the highest point of their wings and along the sides, curving gracefully inwards. Rey counts four in all, but stares in fascination at the leader. He is much younger than she anticipated. A man in his prime. Thick black hair frames his strong, well-defined face, and he stands at least a foot taller than his fellow Wren. He is impossibly broad - a wall of solid muscle. 

But the longer she stares, the more Rey notices the ways in which he is aged beyond his years. The regal way he conducts himself, how he commands the space with ease. The civil yet remote manner in which he greets familiar faces and strangers. All tactics carefully executed and well practiced. She knows right away he is no idle leader.

Every inch of him is sculpted from physical exertion, from training and battle. His chest and arms bare scars, the markings of a warrior. Like the ancient beings in the far north mountains she grew up hearing about: men and women unafraid to die, forgoing any real armor. 

Rey finds it a _bit_ pompous and distracting. Would it be much of an inconvenience for him to put on a tunic or cowl?

A red-hilted sword swings at his side, and judging from his violent reputation, this is a man who wields a weapon with deadly accuracy.

Predators, her mother had called the Wren.

Rey begins to think her mother was right, when the skin on the back of her neck prickles and she lifts her eyes from his chest to his face and -

Kylo is staring straight at her.

The invisible barrier that keeps his stoic mask in place slips away. A flicker of recognition crosses his face. His features narrow and he tilts his head to the side. He looks at Rey like he _knows_ her.

That can’t be right. There is no reason that in a room full of important people he should linger on a Niima. 

Rey shifts her weight, half-embarrassed, but unable to tear her eyes from his. The intensity of his gaze clouds her ability to think clearly, but not wanting to show she is intimidated, she stares back. 

She is reluctantly drawn to the enigmatic, masculine energy rolling off him in waves - waves that come crashing down on her. The connection feels almost _tangible_ . Electric, like static sparking between them. Blood roars in her ears and warmth sets her entire body aflame. Surely she is not the only one affected? The crowd _must_ feel the potency of it.

“Hey.” Rose gently elbows her. “You alright?”

Rey breaks the strange connection with Kylo and catches her reflection in the polished tray. Her cheeks are flushed bright pink and glowing with perspiration. Fog dissipates from her mind as though emerging out of an enchanted mist. The mysterious energy pulsing through her veins is gone.

Rey can’t bring herself to find out if Kylo is still staring at her - but then _why_ would he? She peers at her friend and mutters.

“I’m fine.”

 _Am I?_ She scoots closer to Rose.

“Are they known for magic?” Rey whispers. She hadn’t thought to ask her mother if the Wren were like malignant water sprites. Direct eye contact with a sprite could put the most strong willed person in a trance and lure them to their death. 

“ _What?_ ”

“Magic.” Her voice raises a pitch. “Are the Wren known for casting spells?”

A manicured hand lands on her shoulder. Hux.

“You’re here to serve, not gossip. Save the socializing for our guests, Rey.” His silken voice brushes her ear. Rey rolls her shoulder and knocks his hand off. She fixes her gaze straight ahead. 

With a _tch_ , Hux meanders through the rows of Niima, searching for anything amiss. He finally gives the signal to go ahead, and Rey plasters a dimpled smile on her face. She’s had enough practice creating a smile that is bright and inviting without coming off as disingenuous.

She splinters off in the opposite direction of Rose, politely greeting and offering to fill goblets and glasses with more drink.

As more alcohol is consumed, guests bravely pair off to dance. The music eventually takes on a slower rhythm, and Rey’s thoughts betray her as she watches a couple place their arms around each other, gently swaying to the music.

What she truly wants in addition to her freedom - her heart’s deepest desire - is unattainable. 

Someone to share the joys and sorrows of life with. A partner she can share silly jokes with in the annoying way couples in love do. The rush of blood pumping underneath her skin as she is held, tenderly, by another. Someone to meld with, body and mind. Being loved the way people are supposed to be loved.

 _Oh Rey, you_ _foolish girl, those are fantastical dreams._

Love isn’t in the cards for her. Why would anyone _bother_ to fight for her when they could sign a contract and make her their consort. Outside of her mother, no one will ever love her that much. She doesn’t think of it in a self deprecating way - it’s just a fact. 

Rey scoffs at her frivolous dreams. She tops off more glasses, wondering if the polluted air is getting to her head. Her heart pounds when she realizes she is approaching the dais. She is about to turn around when she thinks - why not?

Why not do her duty and serve Lord Kylo, see if that strange connection returns? Explore it, find out if he is manipulating her with magic. If anything, it will make for an interesting story when she plays cards with Rose.

Emboldened, Rey struts towards the dais and stops in front of the throne. The Wren are seated now, and she bows her head. It takes every last nerve for her to speak to Kylo without being addressed by him first.

“More wine?” She offers, grateful that there is no spark, no electric feeling between them.

He is hard to read, and regards her carefully.

“Ah, a daughter of Csenia. Lady Rathburn appears to enjoy the company of your kind.” Kylo drinks deeply from his cup, his eyes never leaving her face.

It is not exactly an answer to her question, and Rey begins to think this was a very bad idea.

“Come closer.” Kylo instructs quietly, setting the goblet down. The warm undercurrent in his deep voice is deceptively soft. Rey finds herself taking a step forward without a second thought. 

“What happened here?” Kylo reaches out and gently thumbs the cut on her bottom lip.

Rey inhales sharply. His touch is hot against her skin. Rose was right about their elevated temperature - she can feel the warmth emitting from his body from where she stands. She tries to focus on her breathing to recover from the shock of his caress, not wanting him to see how he’s rattled her with a _stupid_ touch.

Rey watches him calmly, she sees how the light in his eyes shifts from dark and unreadable to curious and penetrating.

“It is nothing. I fell.”

Kylo’s thumb is still at her lip when she speaks; her tongue and teeth faintly brushing against his hard, calloused skin. She realizes how soft her mouth is in contrast to his hand, and Kylo raises a single brow.

Rey feels color rise to her cheeks as she considers the possibility that he is enjoying this, that he is toying with her in public for his own amusement. Just a Niima at his disposal for entertainment, nothing more. She is acutely aware of the Wren sitting on either side of Kylo, their gazes watchful and wary. A low chuckle emits from one of them.

Inwardly, Rey fumes. The voices of reason and caution are about to be banished from her mind as she fights the impulse to bite down on his enormous, intrusive thumb. 

Kylo withdraws his hand and sinks back into the throne.

“It is cruel to see something so exquisite clipped and earthbound. To see such lovely wings maimed. Your kind were once known for powerful magic. Magic that rivaled the Nightsisters.”

Her cheeks burn even hotter. 

Nightsisters. Fae who are more dead than alive. Creatures from a wild, wicked realm who wreak havoc on the innocent. It is an insult to her people. Rey stares at Kylo with a look that could freeze fire.

“That’s not true.” Her nostrils flare, her wings flutter in outrage. “We were healers - we were _many_ things. We were nothing like the Nightsisters.”

_What am I doing?_

She should nod, bow, and walk away. Someone will report her for disobedience - most likely Hux who somehow sees _everything_ \- but Kylo doesn’t seem bothered by her argumentative spirit. Not even a little bit.

“No?” His voice is soft but carries an edge of authority. “The Wren dealt with your kind for centuries. Csenia created an army by summoning the dead - legions of corpses that would lay waste to entire villages. Or didn’t you know?”

“That’s a _lie_ ,” Rey snaps back, seething. In all her life she _never_ heard such a story before. Her mother would not dare conceal the truth about their ancestors.

The conversation around them falls silent. Kylo picks up his goblet and lazily gives it a swirl.

“It is a shame that her descendants are still paying for her sins. You have to wonder,” his gaze sweeps her up and down, “why not a single Niima has shown a display of power since.”

Rey feels a tug of wills building between them. He is engaging her longer than he needs to, he is _provoking_ her on purpose. Each word out of his mouth is a sharp hook reeling her in, and she is unable to resist the bait.

Beneath his impassive, hard exterior is a man who relishes a challenge. But then, maybe she does too. 

A semblance of a smile curves on his lips, and Rey would find it handsome if she weren’t so furious. In fact, she is doing everything in her power not to acknowledge it. Kylo holds out his goblet, indicating for it to be refilled, and her hands shake as she pours wine from the decanter.

_Don’t spill, don’t spill, don’t spill. I know you want to dump it over his head but Don’t. Do. It._

Kylo glances from her trembling hands to her face.

“There is no need for Niima to be frightened of the Wren anymore. We believe it is fundamentally wrong to prey on small, defenseless creatures. It is not honorable.”

_Defenseless? She’ll show him defenseless. What an unbelievable, arrogant liar - she knows the stories of his unrelenting violence._

If the Niima and Wren do have a history, it is painfully obvious who the victor is. Kylo, Lord of the Wren sits on a throne while Rey is bound by law to serve and obey him. She is obligated to stand here and listen to him rewrite the history of her people into something shameful and perverse. A people who have already lost everything.

Rey loathes him for it. She wipes the lip of the decanter clean, squares her shoulders and meets his gaze dead-on.

“I am not afraid.”

She is unable to prevent the defensive note in her voice. Rey has never been able to imitate the demure, placid temperament Niima are expected to have. 

One of the flowers from her garland twirls to the ground, landing next to his gigantic black boot. He bends halfway to retrieve it and looks from the flower to Rey. His eyes narrow in contemplation as he twists the delicate white petals between his fingers, kneading them into nothingness. 

“Tell me your name.”

“Rey. My name is Rey. ”

Her heart pounds rapidly in her chest. Why does he need to know a servant’s name? She is no one. The decanter suddenly feels slippery in her clammy hands, and her mind goes blank with terror.

Her defiance has gone too far. This isn’t the same as playing a joke on Hux with Rose. Kylo demands her _name_. The thrill of standing up for herself, for all Niima, has vanished and is replaced with dread.

“No surname?” Kylo’s low voice prompts, cutting through her thoughts. 

_Surname? He wants to know my kin, if I have family._

Another jolt of terror. It dawns on Rey that he might be depraved enough to punish her by hurting her family. Her _mother_. That is something she cannot live with. She refuses to let her mother take the fall for her rash behavior. Rey lowers her gaze and flattens her wings, trying to appear as small and submissive as possible.

“Just Rey.”

Kylo regards her cryptically, and no matter how hard she tries to decipher his expression, he gives away nothing. Her wide, terrified eyes peer through thick lashes as she prepares to plead for mercy.

“Lord Kylo, I apologize if I spoke out of turn. I am ignorant to the history of my people. I was foolish and forgot my place.”

Words spoken heavy with defeat. There is no equal ground between them.

Kylo rests his hand on the hilt of his sword. The weight of his gaze is searing _,_ and the arc of Rey’s throat constricts nervously. Kylo’s measured tone is devoid of any emotion when he addresses her. 

“Ignorant about your own people,” he muses. “Then I have another lesson for you. Csenia was pardoned in part because of her unparalleled beauty. You, maiden, are no exception. Your fiery disposition of youth is innocent enough and entertained us all. Has it not?” He turns to his harvesters, their eyes shining with suppressed laughter.

Rey wants to shrink until she disappears. How highly she must think of herself, that her boldness could ever be a real threat to his ego. She is a threat to no one. Kylo sits draped across the throne with quiet confidence. 

He was just playing a game. A few of the Wren begin to laugh openly, delighting in her fear. Delighting in scaring her half to death. The only person not having a laugh at her expense is Kylo. His hands grip the sides of the throne, his expression remote and cold. 

The others do not seem to notice.

Rey will not give them the satisfaction of seeing her cry. She doesn’t dare blink, feeling tears welling in her eyes from humiliation - and relief.

He let her off easy.

Kylo spoke of lessons from the past but demonstrated a brutal one: the reality of her pathetic existence. It is not just her wings that are clipped but her voice, her agency, and freedom. The outcome of their exchange could have resulted in Kylo ending her life and no one would question it. She doesn’t need to stage a grand act of rebellion to be sentenced to death. All of her mother’s sacrifices would be for nothing.

The shame of it guts her. 

Not wanting to spend another second so close to Kylo or his harvesters, Rey offers a curt nod and shallow bow before withdrawing from the dais. Through blurry vision she balances her tray, pace brisk as she fights down panic with every step. She just _knows_ if she looks over her shoulder, she will find Kylo watching her through dark shadowed eyes.

Rey maintains her composure as she carves a path through the increasingly rowdy crowd, through thick smoke and boisterous laughter. The dancing has become wilder and faster and she pushes through the throngs of tightly pressed bodies shouting unheard apologies. The passageway to the kitchens is only a few steps away, and she careens through the archway, narrowly avoiding crashing into several servants.

She leans against the wall, tears marking wet tracks down her face. Her nerves have undergone far too much, and she inhales gradually through her nose, holds for a few seconds, and releases through her mouth.

_Repeat._

_Just breathe._

The exercise relieves the tight ball of pressure in her chest. She isn’t going back into the main hall - she’s decided that much. Rey walks into the washroom adjacent to the kitchens where servants are cleaning dishes and cutlery. 

“Rey?” Her mother pokes her head through stacks of dirty plates. Rey sets her tray on the table.

“Let me finish this. You should get some rest.”

Rey really does hate seeing her mother on her feet all day and night. 

“I mean it. You’ve done enough for today.”

“What happened out there?” Her mother gives her a look that parents reserve for their children when they suspect there is more to the story. Her mother takes off the washing gloves - the water being carried in is boiling hot - and cups her daughters face. The lines on her face deepen as she frowns.

“The cut on your lip is gone.” She says, puzzled. “Did the healer give you a salve?”

“What? No, that’s -”

Rey picks up a silver platter and angles her head back, examining the reflection of her mouth. There is no sign of the cut she sustained earlier when she fell, not even the hint of a scratch.

_It can’t be._

She pinches her eyes shut and checks again.

_No wound._

Rey vacillates between disbelief and astonishment. Disbelief because magic - real magic - isn’t as common as it once was. Those who wield it end up abusing its power, and isn’t that how the Niima ended up where they are today? Astonishment because of how casually the Wren healed her wound - and the mystery of _why_.

“I don’t think the cut was as bad as you remember.” Rey lies. “Mouth-injuries appear worse than they are - isn’t that what you’d always tell me?” 

“I suppose….” her mother doesn’t look convinced, and Rey shuffles her towards the door, heart galloping inside her chest. If her mother finds out about the incident with Lord Kylo she will never hear the end of it.

“Please promise me you’ll rest, no sewing or quilting.” Rey gently gives her mother one last push into the corridor. 

“Rey.” Her mother jams her foot in the doorway and gives her a pointed stare. Rey finds herself looking into hazel eyes so similar to her own. “You _will_ tell me what this is all about later. I want the truth.”

“Right, of course.”

Her mother places her hands on her hips.

“If you started trouble -”

“Everything is fine. Goodnight, love you!” Rey shuts the door and leans against it, huffing out a sigh.

 _What possessed me to approach him in the first place?_

It is as far as Rey lets herself speculate before she resumes her mother’s chores. She throws herself into scrubbing and washing until her hands are rubbed raw, even through the gloves. It is the perfect activity to lose herself in as she soaks, scrubs, and dries the stacks of plates and goblets. The rhythm and concentration keeps her mind blissfully empty and unable to wander.

There is no room for conversation, all of the servants keep their heads down as they work on their tasks. Rey isn’t sure how much time passes but it feels like hours. When the clock bell chimes half-past one, the washroom begins to empty. Servants trickle out of the room, and Rey quietly bids them goodnight. 

Lady Rathburn likes everyone tucked away before the early morning hours, when the veil between the living and dead bleeds thin. Rey rolls her eyes at Rathburn’s paranoia. The oldest fae in the palace has never reported supernatural happenings taking place - not even during the autumn harvest when the dead are more likely to rise. 

Besides, the ancient palace is well fortified. It has withstood sieges and battles from centuries ago. If anything dead wants to slip inside, it won’t have an easy time of it. Hux even humors Lady Rathburn by maintaining her strange protective charms and talismans around the estate.

Intellectually Rey understands how absurd it is. But alone and a few minutes away from two in the morning, she feels anxious.

Best to forget the night and go to bed. Sleep will restore her mind and sore muscles. She dries one last bowl when she hears a faint noise. 

She hadn’t heard any doors open.

Then - a shuffling sound.

“Hello?” Her voice is swallowed by the silence. “Mom? Is that you?”

Rey knows it is not her mom. She knows by the slow, dragging pace that it is no servant either. They don’t sneak up on each other in the dark quiet of the night. 

“Show yourself!” Fear makes her voice louder. 

No answer. Gooseflesh covers her arms and the tiny hairs on the back of her neck stand up. 

Heavy footsteps grow louder and closer and Rey tiptoes around the table, peeling off her gloves. There is a meat cleaver resting on the other side and she would feel a lot better with it in her hands.

Her mother forbade her to use skillets, but not cleavers.

If that’s not good enough, there is a glass jar stuffed with betony on the windowsill. Tossing the herb on anything that _should_ be dead will set it on fire. In theory. Rey rubs her eyes, trying to stay alert. 

_Stop being ridiculous. Lady Rathburn’s ghost stories aren’t real._

As she rounds the corner of the table, a huge man steps out of the shadow and blocks her path. His beard is dripping wet with mead, he swaggers and looks at her through glassy, red-rimmed eyes.

Typical.

Another feast, another intoxicated man roaming the palace. Rey’s been in this position before. She almost laughs in welcome relief - at how worked up she had gotten. Of course there are no dead things preying on the household. 

Only a guest who seems to have enjoyed himself too much.

“Can I help you?” Rey takes a few small, quick steps backwards. The man arches his brow, belches, and lurches forward. 

“Feast is winding down. I’m hoping for some company tonight.” 

“One of the palace stewards can help you.” She responds, preparing to jump onto - or under - the table to escape. “You’ll find them in the main hall. They will help you find exactly what you’re looking for. It’s part of their job.” She says, not sure why she is bothering to explain. The drunkard is obviously past the point of listening. 

The man shuts his eyes and shakes his head. He rubs the leather belt tied around his waist, decorated with daggers, wooden stakes, and ropes. 

“How ‘bout,” he takes a step forward. “I enjoy you right here.” 

Rey is on top of the table before he finishes his sentence and leaps into the air. The door is in her line of sight, the iron doorknob cool under her hand, when her breath is violently expelled from her lungs.

“Gotcha.”

A burly arm wraps around her waist, rendering her immobile. His hand covers her mouth and she sinks her teeth into the flesh - he yells and strikes her cheek. Rey’s vision splinters, black and fuzzy around the edges as a metallic taste fills her mouth.

The stench of alcohol and piss saturates the air and Rey blanches, willing her stomach to vomit all over him - to repel him any means necessary. 

But her body refuses to obey. It won’t exhaust the extra energy she needs to fight as she shouts and attempts to wrench herself free as he drags her away from the door. She spreads her wings in a desperate move to shove him off, flitting them in his face. 

“Fuckin’ wings,” he crunches them closed and she _screams._ The pain is excruciating and tears race down her cheeks.

“Don’t pull that faerie shit on me or I’ll rip them out myself.” 

He throws her against the wall with a sickening crack. Rey groans and fights to stay conscious. 

The man strokes her jawline with his finger. 

“Pretty,” he slurs. “I’ve wanted to get my hands on you all night.” His drunken mouth grazes her ear. “You smell good. You gonna be good for me?” 

Rey snarls and spits straight in his eye. It earns her another slap and her head bounces off the wall, stunning her into a daze. He’s strong - another punch like that will knock her out cold. Her heart flutters perilously fast as she tries not to let panic override her senses. 

One of his arms traps her against the wall while the other wraps around her neck. Rey thrashes like an animal caught in a trap, kicking and bucking against him. The more she fights, the harder he pushes against her. 

“S’not polite to resist.” He slides a hand down her side and hitches her dress around her waist. “You’re supposed to show me a good time. Bet you’re pretty down here too.” He fingers the elastic of her panties. 

Even with his hand off her throat it feels like hot coils of rope are looped around her neck. Fire burns her throat as she screams. She tries to knee him in the groin but he moves swiftly, his leg knocking her knee out of the way. A humorless laugh hits her face, reeking of alcohol and decay. 

His teeth - the few he has are rotting. 

The man fumbles with his belt. 

“Feisty bitch.” He looks down at her with a hungry, unnatural smile that's too wide around the edges. Rey bares her teeth.

He chuckles.

“And feral, too. Don’t worry, I’ll teach you good manners.” 

He swoops down to kiss her and Rey tucks her chin to her chest. She lifts her head and smacks him with as much force as she can muster. 

Blood spurts from his mouth and he curses. His grip on her loosens, and Rey lands a kick between his legs. He doubles over and she runs. 

Rey doesn’t think to pull down her dress or grab the meat cleaver. Her focus is singular as she bolts for the door, yanks it open, and crashes into Hux. 

“Rey?” He gasps, unable to cloak his surprise at her appearance. 

She can’t imagine how she looks - probably not as awful as she feels - and shock keeps the pain of her injuries at bay. Rey opens her mouth to speak, but her voice comes out hoarse and raspy. It’s little more than a whisper, and Hux strains to hear her when she is cut off by the drunk man’s rantings.

“You interrupted us,” he shouts, belligerent. “I was about to have her. Give her back.” He wobbles over to Hux. “Better yet, deliver her to my room. The name is Krell. General Krell with the First Order militia.” 

Hux stares at Rey when he responds to General Krell. 

“Why does she appear to have been beaten?”

“None of your damn business. Come back here, pretty one. No need to be shy.” He staggers towards Rey, an ugly twisted expression on his face. 

Hux steps in front of Krell, hiding Rey from his view. “Oh, but it is my business. Lady Rathburn’s amenities must be left in the same shape you found them in. A lame horse may be pleasant to look at, but we lose money if it does not perform well.” 

Krell scratches his head, befuddled by Hux’s comparison. 

“She’s fine!” Krell bellows. “She could do a little more discipline. C’mere - what was your name? Rey.” He wags a finger at her. “I’ll be gentle, I promise.” 

Hux holds up a hand. 

“She is promised to another for the next two nights. I came here searching for her, seeing as she left the feast early.” He casts a glance over his shoulder at Rey, clearly irritated at her premature departure. Rey hunches her shoulders and mouths an apology. 

“Tell ‘em too bad,” Krell barks. “I got her first. Send the chump -” he pauses to burp - “another Niima.” 

“I am sorry to inform you that is not possible.” Hux digs around in one of his pockets and produces a key. He strides over to a cabinet and unlocks it. He runs a thin finger over the bottles, searching for the correct one. “Lord Kylo specifically requested that Rey spend the next two nights in his bedchamber. In fact,” Hux plucks a bottle from the cabinet. “It would seem that all of our Niima are currently booked. My sincerest apologies, sir.” 

His voice is smooth as stones polished by the gentle flow of a stream. Hux has a gift when it comes to words. People can’t help but pay attention and listen. Rey wonders if it is a quality Niima were known for - or is it some kind of magic? Glamour, the humans call it. 

Rey fights the urge to give him the biggest hug - she almost does - for trying to protect her. Because she knows Hux is lying through his teeth. The palace is bursting at the seams with Niima. 

“I implore you to drink this, General Krell. It will help with the hangover.” Hux extends his hand, offering the tiny vial. 

Krell scoffs. 

“Aren’t you a Niima? Got the same fucked up wings she does. I’m not picky ya’ know.” His expression darkens, his eyes turning to slits as he scrutinizes Hux. “I _know_ you! You’re Brendol’s boy, aren’t you? One of Brendol’s bastards,” he chortles and wheezes. “Brendol’s bastard - gotta love the sound of that. Has a nice ring to it dontcha think? He sure has a taste for Niima. Can’t blame ‘em. Like I said, I’m not picky - _you_ can show yourself to my room.” 

And there it is. Krell exposes the illusion of Hux’s high ranking household status. He is as vulnerable as she is. The crest of Hux’s shoulders sag and his wings droop. 

Rey closes her eyes and wishes she could stop trembling. In the past she’d been able to bury the experience of men chasing her deep into her subconscious. But this is different. She’s trailing Hux around the kitchen, practically clinging to him to avoid Krell. Rey _hates_ feeling like this - she feels like she ought to be stronger - but she’s frightened. Shell-shocked.

“Please sir, I insist you drink from the vial.” Hux ignores Krell’s comments. “I am sure I can assist in finding you suitable company for the night.”

Krell chugs an open bottle of wine and slams it onto the counter.

“Alright then, give it here.” He grabs the vial from Hux and drinks it. He throws the empty glass bottle on the floor and grimaces. “Nasty taste. Better be worth it. Or else….else I’m gonna…” his eyes roll back in his head and he flails for something to hold onto.

Rey and Hux step aside and watch as he hits the floor face-first. They stare at his unmoving body. 

“Is he…?” Rey asks.

Hux shoves the body with his foot, flipping the man partially onto his back. Blood oozes from his nostrils and mouth. 

“He’s alive.” Hux wrinkles his nose.

“I wish he weren’t.”

“That makes two of us. He will be out for the remainder of the night though. He will wake with a splitting hangover.”

“We could always - you know.” Rey cocks her head towards the meat cleaver.

Hux gives Rey a long, hard look.

“No, Rey. Absolutely not.”

She makes a clicking noise with her tongue and doesn’t break eye contact with him.

“No one would have to know it was us - er - that it was me.”

Rey feels a little crazy for suggesting such a thing - she has never _killed_ anyone before. She doesn’t know what it might do to her to partake in a violent act, and she’s too buzzed on adrenaline to truly think it though. All she knows is that this can’t be the first time Krell has hurt someone, and it won’t be the last. 

“And how would that pan out?” Hux asks. “If you _were_ caught? If you murdered a guest for refusing his advances. Technically, it is you who would be considered the guilty party and punished. I am sorry, Rey.” Hux’s voice softens. 

“Well,” Rey wipes sweat from her forehead. “Thanks, Armitage. For having my back.”

His cheeks tinge pink at the genuine compliment. Rey knows Hux isn’t used to intimacy of any kind - friendship or otherwise. He awkwardly clears his throat and escorts Rey out of the room and into the adjoining corridor. 

“Did he manage to -”

“No.” Rey answers quickly. “I was able to get away before he could get too far.” She flattens her dress and smooths her hair, desperately trying to stash the encounter into the recesses of her mind. 

Hux nods in acknowledgment.

“I’ll have a healer sent to Lord Kylo’s chambers to ensure there are no additional injuries.”

Time freezes and shock hits her like a bucket of ice to the face. 

“I’m sorry - _what_?”

“Lord Kylo was very specific when he requested your presence. I mean really, Rey. Your flirting with him was quite the spectacle during the feast.”

“ _Flirting_?” She bubbles over in near-hysterical laughter, too tired to cry. “That is so incredibly _wrong,_ Armitage. I thought you only said that to call off Krell!”

There are so many beautiful beings in Lady Rathburn’s house, so many properly behaved Niima that Kylo could choose from. It was naive to assume she could challenge a warlord and walk away unscathed. It was not enough for Kylo to humiliate her in public, he wants to humiliate her in private too.

A peal of thunder tears through the palace walls. Torrential rain washes down the glass-paned windows spanning the length of the corridor. An early spring storm in the dead of night, and still no moon in the sky. Rey has never been devoutly superstitious, but now she is beginning to think she has good reason to be.

Hux is paler than usual and keeps his gaze forward.

“It is out of my hands, Rey. I know this is the last thing you want to do, but - pretend to enjoy it. Men like having their egos stroked. Try to be vocal.”

Rey balks at the advice.

“He’ll know I’m putting him on.”

Hux raises a perfectly groomed brow.

“Trust me, most men can’t tell. Best to keep the Wren sated so that whatever business they have here works in our favor.”

Rey’s skin crawls at the thought of being touched. At the cold, factual way Hux instructs her to let a man bed her after a brutal assault. She digs her fingernails into her palms hard enough to draw blood. This is her life, this is what she is expected to to endure.

Rey thinks of Kylo and doubts there is any part of him that can fit inside of her body; she doubts he gives two whits about her comfort. Tears of frustration cling to her lashes. She tries to appeal to Hux’s sympathies with logic and reason.

“Do you really think he will want me like this? I look like I’ve already been _had_ Armitage. I’m hardly the blushing maiden he is expecting.”

Hux lets out an extended sigh as they ascend a spiral staircase.

“Indeed. I _did_ provide him with a list of Niima who have exceptional skills in the bedroom. Niima with excellent reputations when it comes to pleasing guests. He wasn’t interested.”

_So it’s revenge then._

Rey’s fears are solidified. This is definitely about revenge. What hot-blooded warlord turns down a guaranteed pleasurable time in bed for an inexperienced, terrified maiden?

“Have you taken precautions?” Hux asks as a gust of wind whistles up the staircase. The torches flicker, casting eerie shadows on the walls. Rey’s voice is a rough whisper.

“Yes. My mother gave me a serum.”

“I see.” They reach the top of the staircase. “If you have any reason to believe it is ineffective I will have the healer bring an additional potion. Do _not_ mention it to Lord Kylo. Discretion is of the utmost importance.” 

Rey is surprised to learn that the rumors about Hux are true. 

Niima are never openly provided with potions or serums to prevent conception. It just isn’t _done_. Even a halfling Niima brings in a profit to the household. But she’d overheard the whispers in the dressing room about Hux slipping serums to prevent such things from happening. The truth of the rumor lifts her mood - marginally. For one overwhelming second her faith in the decency of beings is restored. 

It is dashed when they reach the top of the staircase. Standing in front of double oak doors is a single Wren holding a spear.

“The Wren have the entire floor.” Hux mutters from the side of his mouth. “Don’t go wandering or snooping around. Do as you’re told.”

Without a word the Wren opens the doors and Hux guides Rey inside.

The chambers are dark - it takes a moment for her eyes to adjust. The crackling of the fireplace and a few strategically placed torches are the only source of light in the room. The Rathburn heraldic crest is mounted prominently on the center wall: a shield featuring three wolf busts with crossed axes above their heads. Richly dyed tapestries hang throughout the room, though none cover the floor length windows on her far left. The dark wood paneling lining the walls is gilded gold and red with a hint of green. Rain lashes at the windows as the wind outside grows stronger, and Rey spots a second room through an archway. The bedroom. The four poster bed is wide and long enough for at least four people - maybe more. 

Illuminated by the edges of the firelight, Kylo and his harvesters stand in brooding silence. Kylo’s dark eyes glitter when he lifts his head, his gaze pins her where she stands. Rey brings an unsteady finger to her bottom lip, remembering his touch - not trusting that he won’t use magic on her again.

Kylo’s jaw hardens as he advances towards them, swiftly and soundlessly. There is an underlying tone of danger in the way he moves and carries himself.

“What did you do to her?” The question comes out as a growl. A deep, thundering sound that matches the storm raging outside.

“What did I - ah, you see Lord Kylo,” a visibly flustered Hux answers. “It was a mere misunderstanding that has been resolved.”

“Has it?”

Kylo fingers the hilt of his sword, his great wings opening ever so slightly. The talons arch high above Hux, gleaming and razor sharp. It is not just an aggressive stance. It’s a threat. Lightning flashes through the window and Hux jumps. Rey has never seen him so unraveled, and it only frays her nerves further. 

Hux has always been able to keep his emotions beneath the surface. But Kylo - he is a storm, barely contained. A man about to erupt.

“Yes, sir.” Hux’s throat bobs. “Again, on behalf of Lady Rathburn I extend my profuse apologies in regard to the state of her appearance. The wounds are superficial. I am confident she will meet your expectations.”

Whatever Hux’s strategy is, it isn’t working. Veins protrude from Kylo’s neck and arms, his chest heaves as he - _oh gods, no_ \- as he stalks towards Rey and begins to slowly circle her.

“Ripped dress. Fingerprints on her neck. Eye swollen shut, bruised face. _Handprints_ on her arms and legs. The blood vessels in her _wings_ are broken.” Kylo’s gaze burns through her. “It is shameful.”

Rey keeps her eyes glued to the floor. She is vaguely aware of hot tears trickling down her cheeks as she shakes with boiling rage. Damn him, _damn him_ to the deepest depths of the underworld for critiquing her injuries, for forcing her to relive it, and condemning her with shame.

Rey doesn’t care what Hux promises - she will never meet any of Kylo’s _expectations._

“I assure you that her virtue remains intact.” Hux elaborates, voice cracking from fear he is unable to mask. “If you require proof I can have the palace healer conduct a thorough examination. As you observe, of course.” 

Humiliation. All she feels is raw, burning, humiliation.

The lavish, four poster bed behind Kylo taunts her. It sets her blood pumping and heart racing. 

She doesn’t want to be in this room or under Kylo’s hypnotic gaze. She doesn’t want to spend the night with him, she doesn’t want to feel another enormous man pressing against her body. 

She just wants her mother.

Rey fists her dress as though pulling on it will make her invisible. A mounting headache throbs behind her eyes and her back hurts from being thrown against the wall. As for her wings - she’d never felt such pain before. As a babe she must have screamed when they were clipped, but having them forcibly shut was agonizing. Now that her adrenaline is fading, she feels every bruise and ache of exhaustion deep in her bones.

“Though if you _would_ prefer another Niima -”

“I would not.” Kylo’s voice is so incensed, so sharp, that Hux shuts up. “I would prefer to keep her in my quarters for the duration of our visit.” The finality in his tone leaves no room for arguing.

“Very good.” Hux dabs at his forehead with a handkerchief. “Five days it is.”

 _Five days?_ A dry gasp scratches her throat and Rey painfully swallows it down. Two days with Kylo sounded like a millennia. But five _days_? The potion her mother gave might not be effective for that long. Her mind can’t go there - her emotional reserve is too depleted. Rey looks at his huge hands and imagines the damage they can inflict. The bastard in the kitchen was just a warm up - she is about to face a real demon now. A monster. 

What other words are there to describe man who cannot see past his greed? Who can look at someone so broken and bruised and only see their selfish desires?

The room starts to shake and spin and Rey’s stomach roils. Hux and Kylo continue to talk, but their words sound garbled and muffled. If she could just manage to inhale a few breaths of air to center herself - but instead she sways and stumbles backwards. Oh, but her limbs are numb and impossible to control. 

She manages to draw in a ragged breath of air, panting from the effort of it, and everything blurs together. Sick - she’s going to be sick all over the floor.

Kylo turns to Rey and says her name. At least, that’s what she _thinks_ he says from the way his mouth moves. Those generous, full lips might be the only part of his body not sculpted into a weapon.

Gods what a _thought_ to have.

Rey shakes her head to stop any more delusional, unwanted observations. The room starts to spin again and an encroaching blackness presses down on her. The last thing she sees is Kylo rushing towards her and then - darkness.

  
  
  
  
  
  
________________________

Thanks again for reading. Your comments/kudos/support means so much 💜 There is a clue in the tags for the next chapter.

Edit 8/24: I help adoptees find bio family and I have a case that requires a lot of attention. But I am trying to update ASAP. Thank you for your patience. I’m so sorry for the long wait. It’s coming I promise! come say hi on twitter @rainbowtaurus :)

Take care everyone, be well.


	3. Gwardyth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone :)  
> I wanted to thank you all for your kind feedback on the last chapter. It means so much. Finding time to write these days is hard, which sucks because I love writing. It's my self-care. But I have an entire outline and plot written out for this fic, and dammit, I will write it lol. This was an original story I had in my head but I really wanted to make it reylo.
> 
> This chapter is from Kylo's POV. Thank you @jacrispybensolo and Amy for beta-ing 💜 
> 
> **********

  
  


In the grey light of dawn, a hush spreads throughout the forest. 

The trilling of the thrush falls silent, the rustling in the undergrowth goes still. Creatures poised to call the morning into existence freeze and blend into their surroundings. Their innate instinct to survive is triggered, for there is a new predator in their territory.

A Wren.

Dangerous things lurk in the woods, in the bogs and rolling hills, but a Wren is a rare sight. Kylo inhales the cool air as he glides through dense fog, the rain rolling off his wings in rivulets. He grips the end of a thick rope knotted around a blubbering man’s wrists. The man swings in the air, bound and gagged, sniveling through his restraints. The man stinks of fear.

Kylo has no tolerance for cowards, for men who hurt women to feel powerful. Fresh anger smolders in him and he gives the rope a hard _yank._ He hardly hears the muffled sobs. Kylo’s eyes narrow and he flicks his wings in an agile downstroke to gain a better visual of the land. The darkness has not fully surrendered to the light, and he needs to find a particular place. A place suitable for a coward to meet his end.

The forest eventually thins and gives way to miles of patchwork farmland dotted with villages.

 _Human villages._ Kylo dives lower and inhales deeply. _Yes, definitely humans._

Smoke rises from stone chimneys and the glow of candlelight brightens the cottages as their inhabitants awaken.

Movement catches his eye as he soars over a cemetery. A flicker of white flashes between headstones and a tormented cry pierces through the darkness. It is shrill and bone-chilling, too eerie to be living.

A stroke of luck. 

Kylo veers sharply in the direction of the wail and circles the graves. A hunched figure crawls from grave to grave, sniffing and scratching at the headstones. It pauses as Kylo draws nearer and looks towards the sky. 

The creature's jaw slopes downwards, sloppy and sideways as though it will melt off completely. It lets another blood-curdling scream and swipes at the air. Kylo notes the webbing between its fingers and toes, the scales stretching over its bony spine. He knows this being. He knows where it can lead him. 

“ _Videk_ ,” Kylo calls down to the creature. “The sun has nearly risen. Run home. _Now_.” 

Nearby, horses and cattle bray and kick up dust - they know something is amiss. The storm has all but stopped, the air thick with the smell of damp soil. The creature hisses and the bound man weeps, face crimson and wet. Judging by the smell, Kylo is certain the man’s bowels have emptied.

And the man - _Krell_ \- calls himself a general.

Disgraceful. _Disgusting._

Human voices shout, concerned about what has frightened the animals. A thatched cottage is backed up against the cemetery and the window-shutters fly open. A child peers into the fading darkness, eyes scanning for anything out of place.

Of course it would have to be a child. They pick up on non-human beings more readily than adults. It is a complication he doesn’t need, and Kylo is a heartbeat away from reaching into his pocket for the betony he took from the kitchen when he retrieved the general. Not to hurt the poor thing, but to get it _moving_.

Finally, with an outraged cry, the videk takes off running. The creature’s gait is fast and jerky as it flees the cemetery and bounds across the fields and farmland, past turfs of peat and clusters of trees.

Krell sobs with fear, gnawing on the rope tied around his mouth. Kylo lets the rope slide through his grip a few inches, just enough to send a jolt of terror through Krell. 

Though, the general could do with a long, drawn-out dose of fear before he meets his death.

Kylo pursues the creature until it reaches a small marsh at the edge of a lake, half-concealed by hollowed trees covered in moss. The wind sings through the cattails and Kylo pulls back, trying to show the creature he is not a threat.

The videk gnashes its teeth - one last warning - before it dives, vanishing beneath the cloudy water. 

Kylo dumps Krell to the ground with a splat, his own landing soft as his boots sink into the mud. Marshes are places of death and decay, of curses and sacrifice - but also life. The water ripples with magic.

Kylo stares into the water. He whispers incantations as ancient as the land and creatures who have dwelled here for millennia. The trees bend and sway as the words leave his lips, and with the breeze a solid shape forms under the water’s murky surface.

_Gwardyth._

She awakens after a storm, after the marshes and lakes have been filled with the water that gives life. Only then does she emerge from her deep slumber. Only then do her wards clamber out onto dry land in search of bones, valuables, and food. 

_Food._

Krell writhes on the ground as Kylo unties his bindings. The general’s breathing is labored and uneven. He struggles to stand and swallows.

“What is this place?” Krell rubs his rope-burned wrists. “And what in the hell is that _thing_?” He watches, horrified, as a figure rises out of the water. 

For a moment she appears to be a woman dripping from head to toe in mud and peat, but the sediment never washes off. It slides and flows over her body in a neverending cascade, her stringy brown hair plastered across her face. She smiles, exposing green ribbons of eelgrass between her teeth.

As if she _is_ the marsh.

Kylo turns to Krell.

“You’d be wise to show Gwardyth some respect.”

Kylo drops to one knee and bows. He reaches into his pocket and carefully lays out stalks of purple heather and intact snake skins. Tokens of esteem and respect.

His next words are chosen carefully. 

“I come bearing gifts for a lady whom some might find beautiful.”

Gwardyth throws her head back and laughs, her forked tongue slithering through her fangs.

“That kind of honesty will get you killed.” She hisses, her eyes shimmering watery shades of green, blue and brown. 

“But you’ve intrigued me, Wren. It has been a long time since I’ve seen your kind here. To what do I owe the pleasure? ”

Kylo tracks her every move while nodding in Krell’s direction. 

“I believe you can give him the death he deserves.” 

“Do you?”

“I do.”

Water sloshes around Gwardyth’s ankles as she approaches Krell.

“My d-d-d-death?” Krell’s voice breaks and he gags, dry heaving and gasping in shock, "Oh gods _no_ , please no..."

Gwardyth’s tongue darts to lick the general’s eyes, lips, and chin. Just enough for a taste.

“Yes. Your death.”

Her teeth lengthen and she raises a clawed hand to caress the general’s cheek. Krell whimpers a prayer and Gwardyth pauses to glance across her shoulder at the dark-winged Wren.

“It is Kylo, isn’t it? Lord of the Wren and sole descendant of the Organa dynasty.”

“I am.” Kylo confirms without hesitation. 

Gwardyth twists a limp strand of hair around her bony finger. Her mouth twists into a wide grin.

“I thought so. Your face is very much a reflection of hers. And how _is_ your mother faring?” 

Kylo’s wings go rigid at the mention of his mother and a cold chill scratches down his spine. The conflicts of the Wren are well known throughout the land, but what his family is up against is private. It is not information shared openly for public speculation or gossip. He offers a vague but truthful answer.

“She grows stronger every day.”

A regarding silence passes between them. Gwardyth clicks her bony fingers together and takes a few lazy, languid steps towards Krell.

“I see. Well, Kylo, you must tell me what I have done to receive such a delectable specimen.”

Krell shuts his eyes, chin wobbling as he makes incoherent whining sounds. His knees knock together in fear that has aged him decades.

“This is a mistake!” He croaks, voice thick with disbelief. “This _has_ to be a mistake. I’ve done nothing wrong! Please, _please_ I’ve done nothing wrong.”

Gwardyth feigns a pitying noise and pokes a single raw finger to his breastbone. She slowly drags it downwards, the tip of her nail slicing his shirt open.

“Oh, now we both know that’s not true. Death means something to a Wren. He has gone through the effort of finding _me_ to deliver your death. And yet, here I am, still wondering _why_.” Gwardyth gazes into Kylo’s unblinking stare. She sniffs the air around him, her smile turning into a knowing one.

“There is another scent on you. Could it be...” she sniffs again, “...a potential mate? Is that what this is about? A rivalry?” She licks her lips. “Surely your mate would not pick this coward over a Wren. Unless…”

Kylo watches the realization wash over Gwardyth and her eyes turn black.

“This isn’t about eliminating competition. No - you were foolish enough to _harm_ a Wren’s mate. Oh, you stupid, stupid man.” 

_Mate._

Kylo feels the tips of his ears burn. But he doesn’t argue, doesn’t challenge Gwardyth. Not when she is preparing to feast. Calling on years of mental discipline, he keeps himself focused. 

Krell frantically glances from Gwardyth to Kylo.

“Wh-what? I don’t know who his mate is!” He cries, short of breath. “Th-th-this isn’t right! You can’t pit me against this _monster_. It’s not fair!”

_He dares to speak of fairness?_

An image of Rey flashes through Kylo’s mind. How small she is, even for a Niima, the top of her head barely reaching his shoulder. A brave slip of a thing in the main hall, turning her chin up at him in defiance. And afterward, how fragile she was in his chambers. The pulse of her heart beating with fear, her wings bruised. Tears spilling down her lovely face. Her confidence shaken and stripped away.

One look at the bloodied and terrified maiden and Kylo made a decision to remove this man forever.

Kylo shifts his gaze to the marsh, his wings fanned out and tense. Grey heads bob to the surface of the water with clay-like mud sliding over their malformed faces. To the untrained eye they appear to be rocks, but Kylo knows better.

Gwardyth’s wards. Lurking, waiting. 

Meanwhile, Krell’s hands fly to his waist in search of a weapon and grapple with empty air. He stares at his open palms, mouth opening and closing in terror. His face turns a morbid shade of green.

“Is this about that fuckin’ _Niima_ ?” Spittle flies from the corners of his mouth, turning to froth as he shouts. “Because you can _have_ that little whore, she doesn’t mean _shit_ to me. I never laid a hand on her!”

Kylo fights to remain kneeling as Krell rants.

“When Brendol learns what you’ve done to me over a _worthless_ fae - ”

A deadly rage unfurls inside of Kylo. Something inside of him snaps, and his lips pull back into a vicious snarl. Heat burns through his veins as he charges Krell. The sounds of bone snapping, flesh tearing, and cartilage crunching fill the air. 

Gwardyth screeches in delight as blood spurts from the socket where Krell’s left arm should be. The general stares in a state of stupefied shock before an anguished scream rips through his throat. 

Kylo breathes hard, the tension in his body hot and visceral. He fans out his wings and paces, trying to control his instinct to attack again, to go in for the kill. The result is a wind that causes Gwardyth’s hair to whip around her face as she howls with laughter.

“Playing with my food are you?” She coos at Kylo, her smile malicious. “Worry not, Wren. He will pay for every wrong he’s wrought on his victim before he dies.” 

Gwardyth’s arm is a green blur as she wraps a clawed hand around Krell’s throat.

“I’ll give you a _fair_ death.” Her tongue licks his earlobe. “I will show you the same courtesy you bestow on your victims.”

She drags Krell through the mud, eyes black as night as the general sobs and begs. Kylo glares, not a shred of sympathy in his gaze. The general’s reckoning has come, and Gwardyth’s wrath is legendary. Snot and tears cut through the dirt on Krell’s face, but Gwardyth ignores it. Waist deep in the water, she turns to Kylo.

“Go and tend to your mate. Assure her that vengeance has been dealt.”

Gwardyth drags a screaming Krell into the misty depths of the marsh. His desperate thrashing does nothing to slow her down. Blood stains the water; it blooms like an unholy ink through the reeds and grasses. With one last wicked wink at Kylo, Gwardyth submerges with Krell and all goes quiet.

It is done.

Kylo closes his eyes. He answered the call to protect Rey. A primal instinct he couldn’t ignore even if he wanted to - and he _knows_ why. Even if he is reluctant to admit it.

_Mate._

Gwardyth’s assumption seeps into the very marrow of his bones. Kylo spreads his wings and thrusts upwards into the air and towards the rays of the dawning sun. The sunrise is a brilliant gradient of orange-red and Kylo wishes he had more time to think. To contemplate in a quiet place, to speak with his mother. She would know exactly what to say.

As the sun thaws the chill from his wings, it becomes clear to Kylo that careful thought will have to be put into every move he makes around Rey. In her young life she had already endured far too much and was not going to trust easily. That much was evident. It is what he would expect from a Niima. 

But that rage, that simmering rage he keeps burning beneath the surface - _that_ will need to be tempered to a gentle, understanding warmth when he is with her.

She’d curled into a tight, protective ball on the bed before he left. Flinching and crying out after he lulled her into what should have been a deep, restorative sleep. It was painful to watch and humbling that she, of all people, evoked this kind of tenderness from him. Compassion, his mother would call it. Compassion that softened him in places he didn't think he had the capability to be soft in.

The Rathburn estate suddenly comes into view, sprawling over acres and acres of land. Kylo palms a tired hand across his face and feels the unkept scratchiness of stubble. He is worn to the bone, covered from head to toe in blood and dirt. His hair matted with sweat and the morning dew, the veins in his wings throbbing from flying hard and fast through the air. The musky smell of the marsh clings to him. He feels more beast than fae right now, but then, has there ever truly been a difference between the two?

Kylo rounds the palace, past a jutting tower and towards the north terrace. The blare of a trumpet followed by a stampede of hooves alerts him to the First Order soldiers going through their early morning drills. Brendol Hux is mounted atop a mighty steed, galloping up and down the field past his men while barking orders. Not a sight he wants to linger on. 

Flying past the soldiers, Kylo finds himself above the lush, formal gardens. Bursting with colorful rows of flowers and sparkling fountains, the gardens provide a peaceful view to those staying in the guest quarters. Or so he was told. 

Kylo hadn’t noticed the gardens during his arrival and tour of the grounds. And certainly not during the storm. He spares a glance in the direction of his chambers. Rey is on his mind, a sudden tingling on the back of his neck stirs something irrationally protective inside of him. He brushes it away. She is safe in his room, guarded by the Wren. She is resting on his bed, waiting for him. 

She is -

Kylo can hardly believe it. A flicker of golden-hued wings shines against the palace wall, a tiny figure scrambles onto a balcony. A growl builds in his chest. 

Rey is _not_ in his bedroom. The Wren are not guarding her. She’s slipped through their fingers and is clambering over the balcony in an attempt to climb down the stone wall. The wall is slick with moss and the vines are thin. It is a fool’s escape.

Kylo glides to her, his wings slicing through the air with deadly silence until he is right behind her, his wings blocking the sun and enveloping her in shadow.

“Rey,” a question rumbles in his throat, one Kylo senses he will be asking her quite often. “What are you _thinking_?”

His warm, broad hand cups her hip to steady her. Kylo expects her to scream, to cry, to fight him. Instead, she draws her wings flat against her back and turns to look at him. A light sparks in those hazel depths that connect with his, and he is reminded that her kind are bred for beauty. To seduce and charm. Kylo refuses to be bewitched, refuses to let her escape. But then, she opens her mouth.

“Kindly remove your hand from my waist, Lord Kylo. I am leaving, and you are in my way.” Rey enunciates each word matter-of-factly, as though they are attending a ball and she is politely thanking him for a dance. She swats at his hand, and Kylo blinks in surprise. It is a bold move for a Niima to make towards a warlord. 

Kylo grinds his jaw. This Niima is, without a doubt, going to test his resolution to be gentle and understanding. He places a second hand on her hip and tightens his hold. Not enough to hurt, but enough to remind Rey that she is beholden to him.

"I don't think you'll want to escape when I'm through with you, Rey."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (just a reminder this is not a darkfic! I only have the energy for 1 big darkfic right now haha. Kylo is just kind of an idiot with words sometimes?)
> 
> anyways -
> 
> Thank you again for reading. Your comments/kudos truly are a bright spot during my day.


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